The Gladiator. Carla Capshaw

howled and let go. She ran, but he grabbed her elbow and spun her to face him, striking her hard across the side of the head. Her ears rang. Her jaw stung with pain.

      Another blow. White specks of light burst behind her eyes. She tasted blood. He backhanded her left cheek. She fell to the ground, jarring her bones. The back of her head bounced against a rock. Agony lanced through her skull. Marcus’s enraged countenance blurred above her. The edges of her vision dimmed, began to turn black.

      “Please, Lord, help me,” she whispered, just before the life she’d known ceased to exist.

      

      As the orange glow of early evening settled over Rome, Caros Viriathos stood at the arched second story window of his bedchamber. His battle-scarred fingers stroked the smooth head of his pet tiger.

      Torches lit the large walled yard below where a dozen of his best gladiators trained with a variety of weapons, perfecting their skills with each other and several wild animals.

      While Caros listened to the clang of clashing metal and the roar of angry lions, his gaze traveled from one pair of opponents to another. He studied each fighter’s footwork, his speed, every sword thrust and jab of a trident. At sunrise, he would speak with each man in private, point out his flaws and demand perfection. Death might be inevitable, but it could be postponed. And sending men into the arena untrained was a waste of life and capital.

      He knew from experience. For ten brutal years, he’d fought in the games, a slave ripped from his Iberian home and forced to serve a cruel master. As an unrivaled champion, he’d won the mob’s fickle affections. They rewarded him three years ago by demanding his freedom as the prize of a particularly bloody competition. Since then, he’d begun his own training grounds, the Ludus Maximus, and amassed a fortune. Even his former master acknowledged no one prepared gladiators more suited for combat than he.

      He should have been pleased with his life, or at least his comfortable situation, but deep inside, he yearned for peace.

      By day, his work kept him occupied, his mind focused on the task of teaching his men the art of battle. But it would soon be dark and the silence of night allowed the Furies to torment him for his past.

      Fists clenched, Caros leaned against the marble windowsill. The aroma of roasting meats signaled the dinner hour. His men had finished training for the day. Their teasing gibes and easy laughter replaced the clash of weapons as they disappeared into the cookhouse. After the evening meal, they’d seek out their beds in the barracks, exhausted and ready for slumber.

      Wishing his sleep came as easily, Caros had given up hope of ever winning the battle that waged in his head. For years, he’d fought the riot inside him, arguing with his conscience that he’d been forced to kill in the ring or be killed. He’d sampled every diversion Rome offered in an effort to distract him from the guilt gnawing at his soul. Nothing soothed him. Everything he’d tried proved empty until he had more and more difficulty suppressing the cries of all those he’d slain.

      The tiger’s tail swished on the mosaic-tiled floor, the only sound in the evening’s stillness. Footsteps approached in the corridor, drawing his attention and a low growl from Cat.

      A fist pounded on the door. “Master,” Gaius, his elderly steward, called through the heavy wooden portal, “a slave caravan has arrived. There are a few good prospects. Do you wish to have a look?”

      Eager for a distraction from his thoughts, Caros left his post at the window. He’d lost four men in the ring the day before and needed to replace them. “I’ll be down in a moment, Gaius. Tell them to wait.”

      Caros pulled on a fresh tunic and reached for a weighty bag of coins on his desk. Moments later, he joined Gaius in one of the long side yards that ran the length of the house. The stench of animal dung and unwashed bodies made him grimace.

      The slave trader, a stout man, paced the straw-covered stones next to a swaying elephant.

      In the torchlight, the newcomer came to an abrupt halt when he noticed Caros approaching. He flashed his rotten teeth and his eyes sparkled with the thrill of a probable sale. He stepped forward, sweeping his stubby arms wide to prove he carried no weapons.

      “Sir, I am Aulus Menus. You are known as the Bone Grinder, no? It is an honor to meet you.” The slave trader bent at the waist in a flamboyant bow. “I saw you fight once four years ago. You took down five gladiators without a single wound to yourself. I can still hear the crowd chanting your name. It is easy to understand why your reputation as Rome’s greatest champion is hailed far and wide.”

      “I’m sure you exaggerate.” Unimpressed by the trader’s flattery or the odor wafting from his person, Caros hoped the man visited one of the city’s baths at the first opportunity.

      “I assure you I don’t exaggerate. I’ve heard your name praised as far as Alexandria. Some even hint you’re a son of Jupiter. They whisper your name in hallowed tones and—”

      “Enough. If you seek to gain my favor with compliments, be warned, you will not. I’m in need of four able-bodied men, no more. The taller, stronger and healthier the better.”

      “No more than four?” Some of the gleam left the slave trader’s eyes. “I have thirty such men.”

      Caros looked toward the row of ragged beggars on offer. Sitting in the dirt, most appeared too weak to stand. Others sat beside them, skinny, dejected, already defeated. A few slightly stronger ones leaned against the wall. None of them would do. “Are you trying to swindle me? I need men for gladiators, not lion fodder.”

      In the torchlight, Aulus’s face grew red, as though he sensed a hefty profit slipping through his fingers. “This is not my best merchandise. Follow me and I’ll show you a host of potential champions.”

      Unconvinced, Caros nodded and followed anyway. Aulus carried a torch as they walked past the wheeled cages filled with reeking animals and all manner of degraded humanity. The sight of dirty, hollow-eyed children clenched his stomach. A youth sitting beside them reminded him of his own capture and sale into slavery. His loving mother and sisters had been tortured that day, then crucified while he was forced to watch.

      Caros pushed the nightmare away. Resigned to the ways of the world, he hardened his heart and continued after Aulus.

      “Here we are.” The trader halted beside a wagon. He held up the torch, giving Caros a better view into the small prison where a score of men stood packed like fish in a net.

      With a practiced eye, Caros considered them. Swathed in loincloths, all were healthier than the wretches in the first lot, but only two or three had the makings of a fighter.

      “I told you, no?” Aulus flashed a confident grin. “Any one of these men could be your next champion.”

      Caros snorted. “How many champions have you trained?”

      Aulus’s smile faded. “None, but—”

      “Then let me be the judge.” He pointed to the three best men. “I’ll take them if you offer a decent price. Otherwise be on your way.”

      “Seven hundred denarii each,” the trader said without a blink.

      Caros laughed. “You are a swindler, Aulus. These slaves aren’t worth two hundred. You’ll have to do better.”

      “Five hundred, then.”

      “Two-fifty.”

      “Four-fifty.”

      “Two-sixty,” he said, enjoying the barter and the slave trader’s increasing dismay.

      Aulus glanced at his wares, obviously weighing his costs. “Four hundred.”

      Caros walked away. Several wagons ahead, he saw Gaius inspecting a pair of giraffes.

      “Wait!” Aulus sounded pained. “You didn’t let me finish.”

      With a glance over his shoulder, Caros raised a brow and waited for the price.

      “Three-fifty.”